Page 130 of Love What's Left
He flipped the script on me when he figured out I’d never have told anyone what I knew about the yacht explosion. The same way I’d . . . eventually . . . flipped the script on him that day at Bronwyn’s house party.
I’d seen his face and understood how very badly he didn’t want to hurt me. He wanted a path out. I gave him one. I didn’t want to shut down his family’s missions; I wanted to join them.
Gabriel sighs. “If you didn’t like the terms, you shouldn’t have agreed to them.”
When we met seven years ago, Gabriel was wiry like a male runway model, with a sallow complexion and bleary eyes. Now, he’s the picture of health. At some point he started hitting the gym and bulked up. He’s not beefy like Bronwyn’s husband. “He’s perfect,”I admit begrudgingly to myself.
“I needed the money, and you demanded insurance that I’d keep my mouth shut,” I say.
He scoffs. “You make it sound like I dragged you kicking and screaming into temptation. You sprinted toward that prize like an Olympic runner on a quest for a gold medal.”
I try again. “Your life will be better without the inconvenience of working me into your schedule.”
“Not at all. Our little chats are the highlight of my life,” he quips.
“I want to move out of state.” I need to put space between us. Better safe, than yearning for a love that would wreck me.
When he skipped the last two weeks, my gut was in knots the entire time. All I could think about was getting a call from Bronwyn that her brother died in a boating accident or drunk driving or from an overdose. I figured, at best, he was on a bender with a bunch of models screwing his brains out.
I can’t keep living like this.
His jaw flexes, and his hand tightens before he picks up his water glass once more. “You’re a great chemical engineer, Walsh, but you’re ass at business. When you enter negotiations, you need to bring something to bargain with. Dad allowed you to define the terms of your employment. They were your idea. Now, you’re telling me you want out, but, as far as I can see, there’s not a thing in it for me”—he clears his throat—“or my family’s company.”
“There’s being a good person in it for you.”
“Says the woman who blackmailed an innocent man,” he says.
“I said I was sorry,” I grate in what even I can admit is the unsorriest voice I’ve ever heard. “And you haven’t been innocent a day in your life.”
Gabriel holds a hand to his heart. “Your apology warms my cockles, Walsh.”
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. I won’t scream. I definitely won’t throw something at him.
“Tell me why you’re unhappy in your current position? Is it the amazing feeling you get from knowing you’re saving people’s lives?”
“No,” I snarl.
“Didn’t think so. Is it a problem with your staff?”
“The staff are great.”
“Since you hand-picked most of them, I would hope so. Is the thermostat still set too low for you? I believe I resolved that issue last month. Can’t have you working somewhere”—his gaze drifts down my body, then he jerks his attention back to my eyes—“nippy.”
I force myself not to cross my arms. For one thing, I’d look defensive. For another, when I do it, I catch him sneaking glances at my plumped-up cleavage every time.
“Did the break room renovation meet your standards? Flex schedule working out for you?” He tilts his head. “Surely, now that I’ve filled the hallways with an appropriate number of motivational kitten posters, you feel that you’re in a ‘positive environment conducive to success.’”
He’s shown up for his unscheduled meetings with me nearly every week for seven years. At first, I made demands in an attempt to get him to stop bothering me. Then it became a game. I’ve requested everything from a slushie machine in the break room to catered lunches for the staff to continuing education training in the Hawaiian islands. Three weeks ago, I made the grave error of being vague.
The Kitten Incident took me more than a day’s worth of negotiations over lunch, a walk in the park, a one-on-one game of soccer, then dinner, to get Gabriel to agree to even change the paint. “I haven’t decided whether you deserve a smack upside the head for that or a high five.” He bested me, but I liked it. I refuse to contemplate what that says about me.
He smolders at me and holds eye contact for way too long.
I do my best to project “Look away, dammit”straight into his brain.
His grin says, “You first.”
“Surely, you’ve realized by now that you can’tannoyyour way out of a contract with a McRae,” he says.
